


long limb light of your body

by AllegoriesInMediasRes



Series: The Other Tudor Fics [4]
Category: 16th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, F/M, M/M, Multi, Oneshot, Polyamory, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 18:57:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18300074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/pseuds/AllegoriesInMediasRes
Summary: January 1536. There is a reverence to Anne and Tom’s lovemaking, something that leaves Henry feeling both as though he is intruding on something private and awed at the privilege to witness it, even when it does not include him.Inspired by mihrsuri’s “Rewrite the Stars for You”, an alternate sketch where something else blooms between the King, Queen, and their most trusted prime minister.





	long limb light of your body

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rewrite The Stars For You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13066005) by [mihrsuri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mihrsuri/pseuds/mihrsuri). 



> My second time ever writing smut. All credit goes to Lil/mihrsuri for this OT3verse. Title from “Someone to Rust With” by Josh Pyke.

There is a reverence to Anne and Tom’s lovemaking, something that leaves Henry feeling both as though he is intruding on something private and awed at the privilege to witness it, even when it does not include him. He lays stretched out on their great bed, idly taking himself in hand when his desire crests, but his attention remains raptly on his raven-crowned loves beside him.

Anne is on top, her hair tumbling in waves and curling on Thomas’s chest as her hands caress and press all the skin she has denied herself for years. His shoulders, his ribs, his sides, his navel. Thomas is enjoying it as well, Henry can see in the gasps he lets out, the way he throws and presses his head back into the pillow.

And Henry can see Thomas’s damned innate reticence, his belief that he is unworthy of his Queen’s attention, in the way he bites his lips and tires to stifle his moans. Though Henry is intent on letting Anne and Tom have their time together, he cannot resist the impulse to lean over and kiss away the tightness at the corners of Tom’s mouth.

He hears Anne’s appreciative intake of breath, and as Henry settles back, he notes with satisfaction that Tom is _finally_ relaxing into Anne’s attentions.

* * *

Her hair smells like roses, just as Tom had imagined. And there are other things, too, that he had not, could not have imagined: the sheen of sweat on Anne’s forehead and arms and chest, the way the firelight plays over her skin, her soft breath ghosting over his own skin just as her hands brush over him. He has long since hardened, he knows and he knows she can feel it, yet in this moment, it is enough to feel her fingers curl and sweep against him, just as his own fingers clench in shivering pleasure. Henry seizes this moment to kiss him with that strange combination of shyness and possession that only he possesses.

His King’s lips on his own, his Queen’s fingers splayed across his chest: Thomas’s heart is unimaginably full and ready to burst.

Thomas reaches out blindly and finds one of Anne’s hands wandering along his body. He grasps it, fingers interlacing and interlocking, and then her other hand as well. In one gentle, smooth motion, he has rolled her onto her back so that he now drapes himself over her. “Your Majesty,” he says, and he has to swallow, his throat is so dry, “your Majesty, if I may?”

* * *

Anne knows Henry hates it when Thomas insists on titles and ranks, but she secretly loves the way he says _Your Majesty_ in their bed, the way he can infuse the honorific with worship and veneration and the slightest hint of desire. If she was not already wet and aching with need before, she is certainly ready now as Tom kisses his way down her.

Anne is keenly aware of Henry, on their periphery yet a silent sentinel, as much a part of this as she and Tom are. She meets his eyes over Tom’s bouncing curls, and a bolt of heat curls within her, curls within her as she takes Henry’s hand.

Tom settles on elbows in between her legs, his breath harsh and rapid now. He glances up quickly: hesitation, permission, anticipation. Anne lifts her chin: invitation, challenge, reassurance. Thomas leans in closer and finally -- _finally_ \-- presses his lips against her.

He is slow, tentative, _lingering_ in a way that is entirely at odd with Henry’s style. She knows he has not done this for a woman since his own Elizabeth passed away, and Anne relishes the thought that in this, they are learning together. His shyness is almost endearing, although it leaves her half-unsatisfied, and she urges him to go faster. Subtly at first, with hitchy moans and gasps, then by digging her heel into his spine, and finally by spearing her fingers in his curls and showing him just _where_ she wants his attentions.

Bless Thomas, he finally understands, and he licks and sucks and rubs at the sensitive nub above her entrance, and Anne cries out, her hips lifting off the bed, her legs writhing and convulsing as her climax grasps her. Stars wink in her vision, white-hot, and even as Thomas helps her to _fly,_  Henry’s hand in hers anchors her as she shudders and thrashes and finally collapses back into the arms of the men she loves.


End file.
